Cochineal
by Cerberusia
Summary: They meet at a ball, of course. Rita Skeeter/Narcissa Malfoy.


They meet at a ball, of course.

Narcissa is there as a member of the well-to-do elite: a rare, finely-cut jewel glittering on Lucius' arm. She wears pale blue silk, platinum hair swept up off her elegant neck, every inch the society wife. She smiles regally at ministers and heads of department both high and low, and murmurs catty comments in Lucius' ear to make him laugh. They move through the hall like sea foam: delicate and inescapable, ever in motion.

This is what Narcissa was born and bred to do.

She runs into Rita in the ladies'. She doesn't know it's Rita then, of course: she only comes out of the stall to see a woman with tightly-curled blonde hair and astonishingly tacky jewelled glasses standing at the sinks, putting on her lipstick. Almost certainly a reporter - Narcissa resolves to pay her no further heed. But out of the corner of her eye she catches sight of fuschia and maroon and - this is her mistake - she turns just slightly to better confirm her first impression that the woman is in fact wearing fuschia robes trimmed with maroon fur. The effect is so clashingly, crashingly ugly that it literally knocks the breath out of her for a moment.

It passes, of course, and Narcissa smoothes her face out into practiced haughty indifference - but the women must have seen her face in that split second because she puts down her lipstick to hold out her hand - big hands, Narcissa notes, with bright red nails to match her lips - and says with a wide crimson smile,

"Narcissa Malfoy, isn't it? Congratulations on the wedding, I've read all about it and it looked _fabulous_." Her accent is a somewhat whiny East End, and Narcissa fights the urge to draw back: she has always been slightly uncomfortable around the lower classes. With a good look at her face, Narcissa gauges her to be around her own age of twenty: her skin has that bloom of youth, unlined, and furthermore her eyeliner application is still clumsy. She's been calling her a woman, but really she's barely a girl.

Narcissa simply inclines her head gracefully in acknowledgement of the compliment. She half-expects the next question out of the vulgar woman's mouth to be about how much it cost - these types are always obsessed with money. She briefly takes the woman's hand, still extended, and finds that she has a strong grip. Unsurprising.

"Rita Skeeter, I write for the Prophet," says the woman. Of course: Narcissa counts spotting journalists among her survival skills, and this Skeeter woman ticks all the boxes.

Then something peculiar happens: Skeeter looks at her with bright green eyes over the top of her violently pink glasses, and suddenly her hand, still gripping Narcissa's, seems to grow warm, tingling heat spreading up Narcissa's arm and into her chest and abdomen.

Narcissa knows what this is, but the situation's all wrong. She could have coped with a taste for rough trade - but a woman who, in her dizzying heights of vulgarity, pairs magenta and fuschia? That's just too much.

It sounds ridiculous like that, parodic, but that's what Narcissa is stuck on. She regards herself as a woman with taste, style, fashion - albeit that she now sets the trends rather than follows them. It therefore follows that she prefers tasteful, tactful, discreet partners, like the girls and boys she engaged with at school and now Lucius, the ultimate gentleman. Rita Skeeter's working class origin is just acceptable - her apparent lack of social graces, tact, gentility and even a modicum of taste is not.

"Now..." says Skeeter, still not letting go. The corner of her mouth curls up, just slightly. An invitation.

Narcissa is not reckless, but something about this woman-girl, her imperfect makeup and bold manner, makes her want to be.

This can't end well. She should leave.

She says:

"Well, I suppose I might agree to a small interview with a lady such as _yourself_..."

Lucius leaves the house at ten - some meeting followed by a leisurely business lunch. He kisses her shoulder, bared by her robe, before he leaves. Today she wears pale pink: the same colour as her blush, which she applies just a little heavier than usual. She puts her hair up only loosely to expose her neck, wears no lipstick: she wants to look touchable.

Skeeter arrives at a little past one, sporting lime green robes - utterly hideous, _affreux_, but the figure suggested beneath them is far more appealing. Narcissa receives her at the door in place of the elf usually on duty, smiles charmingly and takes her cloak, which is a thankfully subdued black.

They step into the grand hall, hung with crystal chandeliers, the great mahogany staircases on either side - and Narcissa smiles to see the naked hunger in Skeeter's eyes. This is what she wants, what they all want: power. Because that's what wealth means, ultimately. Narcissa can use it to buy bespoke gowns, goblin-crafted jewellery and exquisite tea sets to decorate herself and her home all she likes, but that's not why people of her station seek to acquire money, for the sake of spending it. They desire to _have_ it: buying beautiful things simply advertises the fact that they _can_. They desire the privilege of wealth: the material accoutrements are merely a bonus.

They take tea in the parlour, weak spring sunlight filtering in through the French windows; they watch each other over pale blue teacups, filigreed with gold, over tiny madeleines which crack open to reveal butter-yellow insides. Narcissa watches Skeeter's hand clench and unclench in the material at her thigh. Unconscious signal: _yes, yes, yes_.

One of the things that Narcissa and her playmates learnt at a very early age was to recognise the nuances of power - who had the most in the room, how to act towards those with more or less power than oneself, and of course how to gain it for oneself.

They're on Narcissa's turf, here, and Narcissa has what Skeeter wants. The balance of power is easy to see.

It's a waiting game: Narcissa, as the person with power, will naturally make the first move. But she's content to let the tension mount over tea and cakes, watch Skeeter try vainly to relax. She's obviously still a neophyte - no trouble when Narcissa is accustomed to dealing with the more seasoned of her species, the ones who wear their makeup as camouflage rather than a fashion statement. But Narcissa will concede a charm in Skeeter's red lipstick, bold and bright: an endearing sort of brashness.

She imagines violently red kisses left on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, and takes another sip of tea. Earl Grey: she can't stand English Breakfast - too earthy, bitter no matter how much milk you put in it. She prefers the sweet-sharpness of bergamot: cats over dogs.

Skeeter's a bit earthy, she concedes, particularly with that accent. But there's something sharp about her, the promise of steel and stealth, and Narcissa has always liked intrigues.

She sets down her teacup, ready at last - and Skeeter pounces.

Which is to say that she stands, and steps neatly around the table to perch delicately in Narcissa's lap. She takes her glasses off, and Narcissa is again struck by the clarity of her eyes. They stare at each other for a moment, nose to nose - _this isn't the script Narcissa knows_ - before Narcissa relaxes, allowing Skeeter to sink into her.

This is when Narcissa should seize back the reins of power by initiating some kind of caress, but momentarily unsettled by Skeeter's unexpected move, she's too slow: her hand comes up to lightly grip Skeeter's neck as Skeeter leans in to take her by the chin and kiss her.

It's good, as kisses go. Narcissa has always preferred kissing women: softer, smoother, easier to take control of. She usually goes for the butch ones, who expect her to play the lady to their gentleman: she likes to turn the tables, top from the bottom. But here, Skeeter is clearly in control: she leans forward to press Narcissa into her armchair, shifting on her lap. Narcissa curls her other arm around Skeeter's waist, biding her time. She'll get her chance.

Skeeter gets up to pull her by the hand to the chaise longue a couple of feet away, giggling like a schoolgirl. Narcissa has never thought laughter to have any place in sex unless deliberately taunting one's partner, but Skeeter seems honestly delighted. She sprawls on the sofa, pulling Narcissa down on top of her and giggling harder until Narcissa shuts her up with a kiss. She can still feel the smile on her lips. Skeeter opens her mouth willingly, slips her tongue inside Narcissa's before Narcissa thinks to do it first. She presses up, winding her fingers in Narcissa's artfully styled hair.

And then Narcissa understands: Skeeter doesn't _know_. She has no idea how this works among the upper classes, doesn't understand the implications, the inherent power games.

She's just having sex.

Skeeter wraps her arms around her and draws her in, and Narcissa lets herself go. There's no point in power games with people who don't understand the stakes, or the rules, or even the existence of the game itself.

She lets Skeeter press those red lips to her breast and curl her fingers inside her - nails magically blunted, of course. In return, she recalls the anticipation of kissing down a woman's stomach, further and further, then her thighs until _call me Rita _threatens to pull her hair unless she - and she does, relishing the sour taste. No games, nothing held back, calculating - only watching Rita come under her hands and tongue, and she doing the same for her.

She shows Skeeter out, the gracious hostess. They never did actually get round to that interview, but Skeeter wisely doesn't ask after it. Even she knows that's not how these things are done.

Narcissa returns to her armchair in the parlour and spends the afternoon looking over accounts and watching the peacocks stroll about the lawns, occasionally provoked into fanning their tails, something which always amuses her. An ostentatious competition to see who's more worthy: who's more beautiful, whose tail feathers are bigger.

When Lucius returns, they have sex on that same chaise longue. Narcissa is on top, hand lightly pressed to Lucius' throat. Some would see penetration as power: she has always thought envelopment better.

They don't see each other again, though Narcissa does occasionally read her column in the paper. Sometimes she catches sight of bright pink or green, or hears a high-pitched nasal laugh, but doesn't turn to look. There's no point.

But a handful of times, when she's out and about, she thinks she hears thick East End breathing _'Now...'_, and has to swallow and press her nails into her palm to stop herself. It couldn't have ended well.


End file.
